Then they both moved aside and gestured like old-timey circus ringmasters.
And my eyes beheld the astonishing sight of a brand-new copier, shining in the fluorescent lighting like the Holy Grail.
“What—how?” I almost shrieked with glee, running over to touch the machine to make sure it was real. The district was so tight-fisted they never let us have luxuries like working equipment.
“Finally, copies that come out right!”
“And that’s not all,” Mr. Macduff chortled. “Look! All new school laptops for the kids! Every teacher’s wish list filled. A new playground!”
“And,” Mr. Montgomery added, “enough funding for another 5thgrade teacher next year so our class sizes can be smaller!”
I gasped with the decadent, rich pleasure of potentially having 20 instead of 25 or 30 in a classroom.
This was a funding bonanza so huge I’d never seen anything like it in my life.
We weren’t one of the big fancy schools, we were powered by heart and dedication, andhowhad we managed to get on any big donor’s radar. . .
My co-principals were high-fiving on getting funding for an art and dance teacher when I realized the obvious.
It should have been my first thought.
“Who donated this?”
Mr. Macduff looked down at his fax, which was crumpled in his hand.
“It looks like. . . why, who is this?Jesse Wisniewski? Why, the man is a saint! I don’t know how we got on his radar, but praise be to every goddess in the sky that we did!”
“A stone-cold saint!” Mr. Montgomery agreed, rubbing his hands together.
They bounced off happily to spread the good news to the other teachers and I remained looking at the copier, running my hands absently over its shiny perfect surface.
I wanted to cry over its perfect whirling gears.
This would mean so much to the kids and the teachers. A potentially life-changing amount of resources and support for at-risk kids.
My stomach was churning when I headed home.
I had to say thank you. Not that it meant I would getbackwith him, but I was so grateful.
As I got closer, I saw Dad on the front stoop with his karaoke microphone and Jesse on his hands and knees scrubbing the brick walkway with a toothbrush.
Dad’s off-key falsetto rendition of ‘Man, I Feel Like A Woman,’ accompanied by the howlings of Watson, must be some kind of advanced torture technique.
“If he’s going to be hanging around like a bum, he might as well make himself useful,” Dad said as Watson rushed down the steps to greet me, rubbing his shaggy head all over my silk trousers.
The window opened and Mike looked out, his mouth full.
“If you think you can get around my sister with Polish desserts, you’re fucking mistaken,” he said, spraying pastry crumbs everywhere.
“I made Karpatka,” Jesse said, referencing the pastry filled with rich creamy custard that was my favorite. “You better save some for her.”
When Dad brought his old bugle out from behind his back, I waved them all inside.
“Enough, you jokers, I want to talk to Jesse.”
“Make him suffer!” Mike advised sternly before shutting the window.
“See,” Jesse said, stretching to his full height. “I’m hoping if I suffer enough, they’ll forgive me.”
